The Gun of Billy the Kid

The Gun of Billy the Kid


When they factoried Billy's gun
and threaded it on that string
that ended in far hearts,
the quitting bell rang.

From a gunshop with walls honeycombed
mild as church sunlight
with promises for the soul
the gun went out to hunt.

That line the gun barrel followed
wavering for years then trued,
went strangely devious on Sunday,
tugging at its pool of blood.

Nothing miles of promise,
the front sight could find its game
and rest at point with no doubt--
this the round world confirms.

But over the wall of the world
there spills each lonely soul,
and snapping a gun won't help
the journey we all have to go:

In the iron of every day
stars can come through the sky,
and we can turn on the light
and be saved before we die.

Now I once handled firearms
but I handed them back again,
being a pacifist--
then why do I sing this song!

Because of all the lost,
only the sign of the cross
can bring a killer home,
and Billy the Kid was one.

And Smith and Wesson who helped
and singers and story-tellers,
kids in the vacant lots--
all careless hearty fellows.

I follow this, light and strong--
the belief men treat like smoke deer--
through a world like our Southwest
with its monotony, distance, and power.

Billy the Kid was game,
and his game was murder in life;
to know, to see, to save--
for those do good men strive.

And I say my story is true
and is about God and is well;
I tell it the way it came to me,
as one of the truths to tell.


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Archives